7. Jade #3
What does that mean? What could they possibly want from me that’s worth disobeying a direct order from their club president?
Shadow makes a strangled sound. When I risk a glance at him, his face is flushed, his breathing uneven. There’s a visible bulge in his sweatpants that he’s not even trying to hide.
“I need a moment.” His voice is rough, strained. He walks stiffly from the room, one hand adjusting himself, not even pretending he’s not hard.
Razor and Hawk watch him go, then both laugh. Not cruel laughter. Just… amused. Like Shadow’s obvious arousal is funny to them.
“Subtle as always,” Hawk mutters, shaking his head.
“Man’s got no self-control,” Razor agrees. There’s almost affection in his voice.
They’re talking about Shadow like he’s not in the next room, trying to hide an erection because he just watched me get spanked. The casualness of it is somehow more disturbing than the spanking itself.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to process. Trying to understand why my body responded the way it did. Trying to reconcile the fear with the arousal, the terror with the heat still pulsing through me.
“You done trying to escape?” Razor asks. His tone is conversational. Like we’re discussing the weather.
I don’t answer because I don’t trust my voice.
“Because if you’re not, we can do this again.” He stands, looking down at me. “And next time I won’t be so gentle.”
Gentle. He calls that gentle.
The terrifying thing is, he’s probably right. That was controlled. Measured. He could have hurt me. Could have left bruises, made me scream, but he didn’t.
Which doesn’t make it okay. Doesn’t make any of this okay.
But it makes it different from Tyler. And that difference is messing with my head in ways I don’t know how to process.
“Why?” The word comes out broken. Raw. “Why are you keeping me here if you’re just going to kill me anyway?”
Hawk pushes off the doorframe, coming closer. Sits on the bed beside me, close enough that I can feel his body heat. “Who said we’re going to kill you?”
“I heard the phone call. Your president gave an order. Eliminate the witness. That’s me. I’m the witness.”
“Reaper gave an order,” Hawk corrects, voice measured. “I didn’t say I was following it.”
“You have to. You said it yourself—that’s club protocol. Loose ends get cut. That’s how you survive.”
“Protocol’s negotiable.”
“Is it?” I finally look at him. “Because it didn’t sound negotiable. It sounded like you have a deadline to kill me, or you’re all in violation. What happens then? Do they kill you too?”
He doesn’t answer. Which is an answer in itself.
They’d be punished. Maybe killed. For refusing to eliminate me.
“Get some sleep,” he says finally, standing. “We’ll figure this out in the morning.”
“How am I supposed to sleep when I know you’re deciding whether or not to kill me?”
“You slept under the same roof as your ex for years. This can’t be that different.”
The words hit like a slap.
But he’s not wrong.
Every night with Tyler was a gamble. Every morning I woke up was a victory. I survived by accepting I had no control and doing what I needed to do to make it to another day.
This is the same. Just different players. Different stakes.
Same survival instinct.
“The window stays shut,” Razor says, moving toward the door. “You try that shit again, and the consequences will be worse. Understood?”
I don’t answer.
“Understood?” he repeats, voice dropping lower.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good girl.”
The words shouldn’t affect me. Shouldn’t send a shiver down my spine.
But they do.
Both men leave, pulling the door closed behind them. I hear their footsteps retreat down the hall, down the stairs. Hear the rumble of their voices pick up again in the main room, too low to make out words.
I sit on the edge of the bed, body still humming with residual sensation, mind racing.
Razor spanked me while the other two watched. Shadow got hard from it. They all acted like it was normal. And my body responded. Got aroused. Got wet.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to push back the shame.
This is just biology, I tell myself. Your body’s response is autonomic, not a choice. Nerve endings don’t distinguish between pain and pleasure when they’re stimulated a certain way.
It doesn’t mean anything.
But the shame lingers anyway. Because some part of me didn’t just respond physically, some part of me wanted it. Wanted the attention.
And that’s the most fucked up part of all.
I lie back down on the bed, pulling the covers up even though I’m not cold. My ass still burns. The ache between my legs hasn’t faded.
The clock reads 2:37 AM.
Downstairs, I hear a door open. Footsteps. Then Hawk’s voice, clear in the quiet: “Shadow, you done jerking off, or do you need another minute?”
Laughter. Crude, masculine, comfortable.
Then Shadow’s voice, sheepish: “Fuck off.”
More laughter. Like this is all normal. Like they didn’t just spank a hostage and threaten to kill her within a timeline.
Like I’m not lying here trying to figure out how to survive men who might be my only protection from worse.
I close my eyes.
The clock is ticking.